


i don't believe in fairy tales (but i believe in you and me)

by callunavulgari



Series: Heather's Favorites [31]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Vernon Boyd & Erica Reyes, Alpha Derek Hale, Blow Jobs, Cock Worship, M/M, POV Derek Hale, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Size Kink, Stiles Stilinski Has a Big Dick, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-05
Updated: 2014-09-05
Packaged: 2018-02-16 05:30:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2257608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callunavulgari/pseuds/callunavulgari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek scrolls to the next picture. Stops. Blinks.</p><p>For a moment, they just freeze. He can see Stiles’ hand hesitating just next to his out of the corner of his eye, stopped mid-air, like he was reaching to take the phone back. Stiles’ heart is loud — so fucking loud — in the quiet of the loft, drowning out Derek’s own heartbeat and the many varied sounds coming in through the cracked window.</p><p>“So,” Stiles says, voice wobbly and pitched high in what’s probably mortification. “That’s my penis.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	i don't believe in fairy tales (but i believe in you and me)

**Author's Note:**

> Just pretend that this takes place in a magical world where Erica and the rest of the pack is still alive, Derek's still an alpha, and they're actually doing pretty fucking well for themselves. Because I really miss old school pack and Erica's only mentioned in this a couple times, but goddamn it dude, I really wanted to write a future fic where everyone is alive and Derek's an alpha. Because as much as Scott McCall is (probably) a good alpha, I still prefer fandom fics with old school pack and alpha Derek. Obviously this fic turned into porn with feelings and very little pack backstory, but you know what, I had fun so suck it.
> 
> Also, this fic is entirely the fault of [this tumblr post](http://callunavulgari.tumblr.com/post/96645927185/captain-snark-just-picture-though-stiles-giving), which I saw earlier today and waffled for awhile about whether or not I wanted to write about sloppy blow jobs. Then I had a much too alcoholic drink at dinner and decided that yes, yes I really did want to write about blow jobs today.

It’s not even that Stiles has a huge dick. Whatever Erica — because yes, in a moment of weakness Derek confessed what was bothering him to the _worst_ possible pack member he could have told — says, it’s not that Stiles has a hulking monstrosity of a dick. It’s not. Derek is not salivating because he has a secret desire to get stuffed by a ten inch cock.  
  
Because Stiles does have a big dick. It’s definitely bigger than Derek would have expected, bigger than Derek himself, and Stiles definitely has a couple inches on the average male, but it’s not— that’s not the problem.  
  
The problem is that, big or not, Stiles has the _prettiest_ fucking cock that Derek has ever seen.  
  
And Derek, not because he’s a size queen or any of that bullshit that Erica’s peddling, kind of wants to get his mouth on it. For hours. He wants to suck Stiles off until he’s crying and then after, he kind of wants to get that damn pretty dick in his ass.  
  
It’s not a thing though. Derek has great control — superb, really — because if he didn’t, he would have gone on a killing spree a long fucking time ago, way before Peter monopolized on it.  
  
Derek glares at Stiles, only half-listening to whatever Scott is saying, and pretends that he’s not having a lurid fantasy about going down on Stiles in front of everybody, just because he can.  
  
But it’s not a thing.  
  
Really.  
  
.  
  
It happened on a pretty shitty day. The sun was hidden behind nearly black storm clouds, and even though the storm hadn’t rolled in yet, everyone had been waiting for the skies to break open all day. The storm trackers or whatever said that it would be a big one, but they’d also said that it was supposed to roll in around ten in the morning, and as it’s going on five in the afternoon, Derek didn’t make a habit of trusting the weather channel.  
  
The rest of the pack are busy, so it’s just him and Stiles at the loft, mindlessly going through weeks of accumulated research. They’ve got it narrowed down to either witches, some kind of fae, or, god forbid, fucking djinns, which is progress compared to last week when they had absolutely no idea.  
  
Derek’s considering calling for pizza when Stiles makes a stifled noise of enthusiasm from the couch, and his head jerks up, eyes cutting over to where Stiles is leaping off the sofa, his eyes wide as he digs into his pockets.  
  
Derek raises an eyebrow at him as Stiles spits the pen out of his mouth, and says excitedly, “Dude, I can’t believe I forgot—” and then he’s sliding onto the barstool next to his, pushing his cell phone into Derek’s hand.  
  
On the screen is a crappy photo of what looks to be the remains of some kind of ritual, complete with melted red candles, a shattered mirror, and scratchy writing that doesn’t seem to be in English.  
  
He blinks at it, squinting at the looping letters scratched into the dirt, and asks, “Where did you find this?”  
  
His finger hovers over the screen, ready to scroll to the next picture, hoping that there will be a better shot of the writing, when Stiles tenses next to him and says, “Dude, wha—”  
  
Derek scrolls to the next picture.  
  
Stops.  
  
Blinks.  
  
For a moment, they just freeze. He can see Stiles’ hand hesitating just next to his out of the corner of his eye, stopped mid-air, like he was reaching to take the phone back. Stiles’ heart is loud — so fucking loud — in the quiet of the loft, drowning out Derek’s own heartbeat and the many varied sounds coming in through the cracked window.  
  
“So,” Stiles says, voice wobbly and pitched high in what’s probably mortification. “That’s my penis.”  
  
Derek… well, he can’t say that he’s seen _a lot_ of dicks in his time, because that would be false advertising. He hasn’t seen _that_ many dicks. But he’s a healthy twenty-five year old bisexual male. He has access to pornography, along with the rest of the world, and when he lived in New York, he’d dabbled. He’s had sex with men. He’s jacked off to both gay and straight porn. He hasn’t seen an excessive amount of dicks, but he’s seen enough to know that the dick he’s looking at is… different than most of the others he’s seen.  
  
Not in a bad way — there’s nothing wrong with it — but it’s definitely… something.  
  
It’s bigger than most, for one. Derek’s watched porn with so-called ‘monster cocks’ and it isn’t like that. It’s just bigger. Than average. He can’t really tell measurements by looking at a picture, but judging by the long, skinny, _recognizable_ fingers wrapped around it, it’s probably pushing eight inches. Probably. Maybe seven and a half. And it’s definitely thick too, big enough that Stiles’ fingers, while closed comfortably around the base, are probably only a few centimeters away from not being _able_ to close around it.  
  
It’s not the size that catches his eye, though. It’s not. No, what Derek really notices, is how fucking _perfect_ it is. Pretty and pink, flushed more red towards the tip, the head shiny with just a hint of smeared pre-come. It curves, slightly, to the left, and the angle is pretty shit, but Derek can just pick out a thatch of dark hair half-hidden by the hand that’s gripping it.  
  
And the thing is, Derek has never been impressed with dick pics. Sure, he likes dicks well enough — how they feel in the palm of his hand, the weight of them on his tongue, and sometimes, he really likes how it feels to have his ass stretched tight around one. But he’s never looked at a picture of _just_ a dick and _wanted_.  
  
But now? His mouth fucking _waters_.  
  
That should not be a thing.  
  
It shouldn’t.  
  
(But it is.)  
  
He blinks, dazed, and comes to the realization that maybe, just maybe, he’s possibly been staring at a picture of Stiles’ dick for entirely too long. Embarrassed, he clears his throat and ignores the flush of warmth in his cheeks as he silently hands the phone back over.  
  
Neither of them say anything until Stiles packs up and leaves twenty minutes later, throwing Derek a hurried salute before backing out the door.  
  
Only after he’s gone does Derek realize that he never got an answer as to where Stiles found the ritual thing. To make matters worse, the skies have fallen opened up, which means that now the kid is _definitely_ driving home in the midst of pouring rain. Fuck.  
  
.  
  
Telling Erica was a mistake. She doesn’t do anything truly awful, like tell the rest of the pack, but she _does_ take to whispering in his ear whenever Stiles is around — dirty, filthy things that has Derek blushing like he’s fourteen again and getting up in a hurry to leave the room.  
  
It’s bad enough that his eyes keep drifting down to Stiles’ crotch whenever they’re in the same room together; bad enough that Derek can’t help but stare, hoping that he’ll chance a glimpse of the outline of Stiles’ cock.  
  
It makes him feel awful. It feels… gross, to stare like that. He’s been on the wrong side of stares like the ones he’s giving before and he’s never liked them. Assholes can go on and on about how it’s a compliment, but mostly it feels like an invasion. It makes him feel small and if he’s honest with himself, it kind of makes him wish that he was a teenager again, with ears too big and a body that hasn’t quite caught up with his face.  
  
And if he’s never liked it, he can’t imagine that Stiles would, so he tries to ignore it; tries to keep his eyes away from the lithe line of Stiles’ body and his long, gorgeous fingers. He’ll still find himself staring sometimes, but he always catches himself, yanking his attention away before the stare can get even creepier or worse, before Stiles can catch him at it.  
  
Apparently, he doesn’t do a good enough job, because Stiles approaches him nervously after a pack meeting one day, lips bitten red, avoiding Derek’s eyes.  
  
Most of the rest of the pack is gone, so it’s just them and Erica now, who’s grabbing a couple of her things that she’d left here the other day before she goes. Stiles politely waits for her to vanish out the door before he shoves his hands into his pockets and speaks.  
  
“So,” he says nervously, shuffling his feet, eyes still fixed to a point on the wall just over Derek’s shoulder. “I know it’s weird man, but uh, I can’t help but notice that you keep glaring at my crotch? And like, I don’t know. I know that it’s awkward and shit, but it’s not like I wanted you to see the picture either and uh, yeah.”  
  
Derek blinks at him, stunned silent, which Stiles seems to take as permission to keep talking.  
  
“I don’t know if this is a… thing? Like, a jealousy thing or something? Because I gotta say, I’m kind of a shower not a grower, and I know that Jackson just happened to turn into an even bigger douche after he caught sight of my junk in the locker room but—”  
  
“It’s not—” Derek coughs. “It’s not like that.”  
  
Stiles stutters to a stop and blinks at him, long lashes dragging against his cheeks.  
  
“Oh,” he says. A moment later, the first spark of anger shows up, his eyes narrowing dangerously. He still looks nervous and slightly confused, but this right here is more familiar. He’s used to having Stiles sneer and make cutting remarks than whatever this is— this self conscious kid that’s replaced the boy who stared down who he thought was a fucking serial killer. Stiles licks his lips, the tip of his tongue darting out to wet them, and Derek fights down the urge to groan. “Then why…?”  
  
Derek feels the wave of red creep over his cheeks, feels the heat burning away at the tips of his ears, and god, he would rather be anywhere else right now. He coughs. Says, in a quiet voice, “You, uh— it’s nice.”  
  
He doesn’t look at Stiles. Doesn’t look away from the wet spot in the corner where the rain has managed to creep in through some drywall.  
  
“ _What_?” Stiles hisses. “I mean— _what_?”  
  
Derek grits his teeth. “Stiles, if you make me spell this out I swear to god—”  
  
“Are you telling me,” Stiles interrupts, voice pitched slow and oh god, quiet. A quiet Stiles is a dangerous Stiles. He’s like a puppy or a baby that way. “That the reason you’ve been glaring at my crotch for the last few weeks is because you, what? You _like_ my _dick_?”  
  
Towards the end of the sentence, it kind of sounded like he was trying to joke about it; like even after Derek all but admitted it, he still thinks that the idea is hilarious.  
  
Very slowly, Derek drags his eyes away from the wet patch on his ceiling, makes himself meet Stiles’ wide, incredulous eyes. “That’s what I said.”  
  
Stiles laughs, ever so slightly hysterical. “You actually said that it’s, uh, nice, but okay.” He clears his throat, chasing the rest of the laughter away, and _bites his lip_ , looking up at Derek through lowered lashes, and fuck, he is so far out of his depth that it’s not even funny. “So uh, you’re really not fucking with me right now? You uh, actually, what— Want to…?”  
  
Derek breathes in deep, catching the tinge of arousal in the air, both his and Stiles’. He leans in, because he’s helpless not to, and hesitantly touches the swell of Stiles’ lower lip.  
  
“Yes,” he whispers, knowing that if he looks down, he _will_ see the outline of Stiles’ dick. His eyes flare red and he watches with interest as the glow of them reflects back off of Stiles’ pupils. “I want to—” he cuts himself off with a shudder when Stiles licks his lips reflexively, the tip of it ghosting over his finger. It’s accidental, judging by the way Stiles’ eyes go even wider, but it’s still distracting.  
  
He starts again, edging even closer, until he’s caging Stiles in against the wall with his body. “I _want_ ,” he tries, breathless, and thinks about leaving it at that, let Stiles fill in the blanks, but no, that’s too easy. “I want your cock in my mouth,” he breathes, tracing his finger down Stiles’ chin, over his throat, feeling the pulse of blood beneath the pad of his thumb, and down further, until it’s dipping beneath the gaping neckline of the old, worn Captain America tee he’s wearing.  
  
“I want to suck you off until you’re fucking dripping for me. Want your hands on me, want you to open me up with those _obscene_ fingers of yours, and then,” he lowers his voice, leans in until his lips are touching the hot curve of Stiles’ ear. “I want you to fuck me with that pretty cock of yours until I can’t move. Think you can handle that?”  
  
“Oh my _god_ ,” Stiles gasps, hips jerking against Derek’s, and well, that’s enough for him, so he growls quietly and yanks Stiles in for a kiss.  
  
It’s not that it isn’t a good kiss, because it is. What Stiles lacks in experience, he makes up for with sheer enthusiasm, but as the kiss goes on, it makes a U-turn from needy and passionate straight into slow and sweet, which is unexpected to say the least. He’s horny, Stiles is horny — by all means, the kiss should be hot and hard, wet and unforgiving. He’s had dreams and fantasies for weeks about getting his mouth on Stiles, and in them, it’s always been just this side of too much.  
  
Stiles must feel it too, because a second later, he pulls back and blinks blearily at Derek. He’s all pupil, lips red and puffy, jawline already irritated with stubble burn. He looks exactly like every fantasy that Derek’s ever had and Derek still wants that, he definitely does, he still wants to lick and suck Stiles’ cock until he loses it and yanks on Derek’s hair, but he also… wants more than that. Because he’d liked the way the kiss turned, liked the way it went tender when Stiles scraped his nails gently down his scalp, the way he’d cupped the base of Derek’s skull and pressed up and into the kiss.  
  
“Wow,” Stiles breathes into the quiet. “That was kind of not what I was expecting.”  
  
Derek snorts. “Good or bad?”  
  
“Good,” Stiles says, nodding. “Yeah, definitely good. Just—”  
  
“Different,” Derek finishes for him. Stiles nods again, his arms twitching like he wants to pull Derek in again, so he happily obliges, leaning in to drag his nose over Stiles’ thready pulse. He kisses that spot and then, because he _can_ , sucks a bruise into Stiles’ pale skin.  
  
Stiles moans, throwing his head back as his hands go back to Derek’s hair, nails scraping over his scalp, still gentle.  
  
“Something tells me,” Stiles gasps, hips bucking when Derek licks up the line of his neck. “That this next part might go a little different too.”  
  
“Not all that different,” Derek tells him, voice muffled with Stiles’ skin. “I still want to get my mouth on you.”  
  
“You’re doing a pretty good job at that right now, actually.”  
  
Derek rolls his eyes, skating his hands down Stiles’ sides so that he can get them properly beneath his shirt. The skin there is _warm_ , so fucking warm, and he wants to bite at it, so he does, dropping to his knees.  
  
“Holy god,” Stiles breathes, and Derek smirks around a mouthful of skin, sucks long and slow as Stiles moans above him, hips twitching so hard that his dick brushes against Derek’s chin.  
  
And yeah, okay, that’s enough of an invitation.  
  
Once he gets Stiles’ pants undone and his boxers yanked down around his thighs, Derek realizes that he has no idea what to do now that he actually _has_ Stiles’ dick in front of him.  
  
It’s even more gorgeous in person. The phone doesn’t do it justice at all, crappy pixels nothing compared to the bright flare of color and scent that he’s got before him now. It still makes his mouth water, and the problem isn’t so much that he doesn’t know what to do, because he has actually given blowjobs before, it’s that he doesn’t know where to _start_.  
  
“Second thoughts?” Stiles asks softly from above him, bringing his hand down to smooth gently over Derek’s cheek.  
  
Derek jerks and looks up at him, eyes narrowed, but Stiles doesn’t look nervous at all. He looks undone and unbearably gentle, a small smile playing around his lips. He’s teasing, Derek realizes, his heart speeding up minutely as warmth unfurls in his chest.  
  
“No,” he growls, stroking a patch of skin just above Stiles’ hip to gentle the words, and then he’s leaning in and sucking the head of Stiles’ cock into his mouth.  
  
If Derek had thought that he looked good, if he thought that Stiles had _smelled_ good, it’s nothing to the way he tastes.  
  
Stiles tastes… and god, he can hear Erica mocking him for it even in his head, but Stiles tastes fucking _divine_. He tastes like he was made for Derek, like salt and sweat and something that doesn’t have words, something that can’t possibly be described to humans. And the _noises_ he makes when Derek sucks him all the way down are maddening.  
  
Stiles squirms and breathes soft praises into the skin of his wrist, which he’s biting down on gently; probably to stifle himself, though it doesn’t appear to be working, thankfully. Derek might have had to do something drastic if he’d succeeded in keeping himself quiet, but Stiles is mobile and loud, even now, even with his cock halfway down Derek’s throat, his hands constantly carding through Derek’s hair as he murmurs little encouraging words and an endless stream of curses combined with Derek’s name.  
  
Blow jobs take awhile to bring someone to orgasm, even with virgins, but especially if the person blowing them is doing their damndest to make it last as long as possible. By the time Stiles’ is hissing between his clenched teeth, face red, dick drooling pre-come into Derek’s mouth, his jaw is sore and his eyes are watering, but it’s worth every fucking second of it for the way that Stiles’ lets out a sharp wail when he comes, head thunking back against the wall as his fingers clench in Derek’s hair.  
  
He sucks Stiles through the aftershocks, until he’s squirming and oversensitive, and only then does Derek let him slip from his mouth.  
  
Stiles makes this tiny content noise, breath hitching as his lashes flutter, and he holds up a hand with one finger extended, like he’s trying to tell Derek to give him a minute. Derek can’t help himself, he snorts, and gathers Stiles in, lifting him easily and ignoring the squawk it produces as he makes his way towards the bedroom.  
  
He’s tempted to drop Stiles onto the bed just to hear him bitch, but in the end, he slides them both onto the bed, his arms still keeping Stiles curled tight to his chest.  
  
“I still want you to fuck me,” he tells Stiles a few minutes later, nosing curiously along his collarbone.  
  
Stiles lets out a short bark of laughter and grins down at him, the corners of his eyes wrinkling up, and Derek — Derek wants to kiss those wrinkles and he wants to bite down on that smile and he figures he’s probably in over his head because he’s gotten this stupid kid off _once_ , hasn’t even come himself yet, and he is already fucking gone. Just— _gone_.  
  
“I think that can probably be arranged,” Stiles tells him, still grinning, making grabby motions until Derek sighs and slides up his body, and into the cradle of his arms. “Gimme like fifteen minutes. Ten if you get creative with a strip tease.”  
  
And yeah, Derek thinks, resting his ear over the rapid thump-thump-thump of Stiles’ heart. He is definitely gone on this one. Erica’s going to mock him forever.  


**Author's Note:**

> Come visit me on tumblr! My [writing blog](http://callunawrites.tumblr.com/) and [my primary one](http://callunavulgari.tumblr.com/).


End file.
